The Dark Lady's Embrace
by Gravedirtbaby
Summary: The life story of a strange elf with a mysterious past and a talent for magic. As her existence steadily becomes more and more chaotic, will she be able to save herself from becoming what she has hated? Rated T for later chapters. Review!
1. Introduction A Lacing of Mist

_For starters, this is more the tale of Ninde then any other – As any who know me well might know, I'm somewhat infatuated with the Elf, even though she's got more issues then a news stand. I'd always seen her back-story as the most fascinating part of her, so finally I have decided to transfer it to paper – or virtual paper, at least. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'd post Ninde's stats, but at this point in the story it would be rather a spoiler. _

_Reviews wanted and needed – they encourage me to keep writing. Thankyou._

_And also – a disclaimer. I own the characters. Ninde, Respen, Inaed, Aondrial, Vyreena, Rohanna, Sykre, Lirhys, Synrielle and pretty much everyone else mentioned in this story who no-one else thought up first, ke? However. I don't own the setting. Sadly. ;.;_

**Introduction – A lacing of Mist**

It was a dewy morning on the wooded fringes of Cormanthor, and the air reeked of moist violets. As always, it was still, damp. One could almost hear the ghostly tolling of the bells of Mistledale in the distance, perhaps intertwined with the soft noises of nature's subtle interruption. The occasional twig snap, perhaps the silky pitter-patter of water droplets rolling from leaf to leaf amidst the thick jaden canopy of trees; all in all, an ethereally beautiful place, tinged with the melancholy of mortality. For the vast forests of Cormanthor, once the haven of the Moon and Wood Elves had been touched by the corruption of the Drow. Pouring forth from the gashes in the hallowed earth of the forest, the malignant creatures brought with them their spider-fiends of Lolth and their dark magics, seeking the ancient treasures of their surface cousins.

And so it was with extreme caution that the line of merchant caravans wended down the sodden dirt track. They were flanked on either sides by armed soldiers, bleary eyed from lack of sleep, but nonetheless extraordinarily alert and gazing anxiously about them through the murky fog that the woods were swathed in, as though at any moment an enemy might leap forth from the purple miasma.

At the front of the convoy, rode a young man, his scarred hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword. The breath of his steed rose before it's nose in pearly clouds, and it picked it's way along the muddy path with the utmost care. This young man had a sharp, concise gaze and a lean, well-muscled body that belied experience of combat and travel. However, despite his somewhat gnarled appearance, he could not have seen more then twenty-five summers, and his clothing was rich in comparison with the other hired mercenaries guarding the caravans, most of whom were unwashed and modestly dressed. And the young man was named Respen Amblecrown of Waterdeep. One might wonder, perhaps, what a wealthy young nobleman from the northern metropolis of Waterdeep was doing, playing the part of a humble hired protector. But Respen was not the only Amblecrown present within the convoy. His father rode further back, a delicately enamelled pipe hanging haphazardly between his cracked paper lips. His expression was as nervous and tired as the rest of the men who travelled with them, although he was trying his very best to distract himself with the study of several parchments he had purchased from a trader in the nearby town of Chandlerscross. His spidery fingers trailed idly through his thin beard.

Inaed Amblecrown took less well to the world outside the high walls of Waterdeep then his son did, and after all, who could blame him – a man of seventy was at no age in life to begin to accustom himself to new places, or to new people. He left the city on business, and that was all, for few had a shrewder eye then Inaed. He had hoped, perhaps, that young Respen may have gleaned some knowledge of magical artifacts in his years working with the Amblecrown Trading Consortium, but sadly, Respen was supremely disdainful and even suspicious of all things magical. To Inaed, his son was little more then another skilled guardsman for his caravans loaded with scrolls and delicate potion flasks.

The air became suddenly more silent, and the trees pressed closer in on either side of the path, the grey bark of their trunks shimmering with dawn moisture and pale green lichen – it had begun to rain. A light, clinging drizzle that settled in the eyelashes and hair of the company, and then Respen heard a sound up ahead; a slight moaning. It soared from the soft forest noises so distinctively… it was so alien in this un-inhabited world of ghostly mists. The young man peered over his shoulder at the company behind. They continued to wade with needless caution through the shallow mud behind him, and had clearly not heard the small sound.

Yes… yes. There it was again. A soft, almost mournful moan. His curiosity overwhelmed his usually strong sense of caution, and without so much as a single call back to the rest of the convoy, he gently tapped his reigns against the neck of his tired mare, urging her through the soft damp earth to investigate that strange small noise. What could it be? An injured animal, perhaps. Yes, that seemed most likely. As he rounded the corner and curled out of sight, he heard his father call, but paid no heed; he was nearly upon the creature, whatever it was. And then he saw it – a black-brown, misshapen thing. A tiny lump of mud and leaves and fur and tattered black cloth, curled, foetal, in a tiny nest of grey-green leaves, on the floor at the feet of his horse. It cooed softly, but did not move. A quasit? A mephit? It could not be a simple woodland creature.

"A demon!" Cried Respen, drawing his sword with a metallic whistle and swinging deftly from his saddle, reaching down for the small furry bundle. It offered no resistance, he noticed with a little surprise, as he grasped it by what he assumed was the scruff of its neck. But then, as he harshly tugged it up to the level of his face, two tiny white arms shot from the bundle and began to scrabble at his armour with sharp, filthy nails. In surprise, Respen promptly dropped the dirty wriggling creature and backed away, only to find his curious gaze met by an equally inquisitive pair of eyes. They were a blue almost as pale as the mist that surrounded the pair of them, and as wide and moist as an ocean, framed with dark, damp lashes.

She was more creature then child; her hair was thick with dirt and twigs, and her small body was swathed in filthy, baggy clothes that were in dire need of repair. Her skin was also coated in mud and other debris of the forest, but in some areas flesh of the palest alabaster shone through the grime. She stood perfectly still, observing him with a strange intelligence that unnerved him substantially, exuded as it was by one who was apparently so young. The pair stood in a complete, almost tangible silence, the smoky grey air swirling about them and the whisper of breeze stirring the mucky tendrils of her dark hair. Almost instantly, Respen sensed there was a certain strange electricity in her manner, an edge to her gaze – this child stared at him through the eyes of a woman. Perhaps it was fate; he knew at that moment that he was meant to find her. It was simply meant to be.

Cautiously, he knelt, lowering his face to the same level as hers, but still maintaining a prudent level of distance from the feral looking girl. She did not move, but observed him suspiciously, raising a tiny hand to chew at her thumb. Carefully, and not removing his steady eyes from her face, he extracted a semi-stale travelling biscuit from his knapsack, and held it out to her, without saying a word. The child watched him warily, but made a move to grab the biscuit from his hand and crush it hungrily to her mouth. Respen's gaze softened as he noticed the fervour with which she consumed the biscuit – the poor bedraggled creature must be near starving. As she swallowed the biscuit, he noticed tiny trails of silver leading from her eyes – silent tears. They smudged the mud that covered her face. Suddenly, the familiar rattle of cartwheels and familiar cry of Inaed shattered the hallowed silence of the clearing.

"Respen!" He barked, his voice tinged with irritation. He did dislike it so when that foolish boy went wandering off. Not because he was concerned for the boy's welfare – oh, definitely not – but because the convoy was much more open to attack in this dangerous area if it was missing a guardsman. Inaed had hurried the convoy along as soon as he noticed Respen was missing, as he was sure the half-wit could not have gone far. As they rounded a corner, Inaed irritably urging on the mule that tugged along his caravan, they came to a glade in which the prevalent mist circled eerily, and at the centre of this glade, swathed in pale fog, knelt Respen. But he was not alone. Respen turned and stood, his usually solemn expression one of complete peace, and yes, almost happiness. He clutched a small bundle of grubby fabric to his shoulder, and his sandy brown hair was thick and frizzed from moisture.

"Ah, there you are boy." Began Inaed. "I was beginning to think you had been-" Inaed cut himself short as he noticed that Respen was carrying something. Inaed was nefariously nosy and, being Inaed, rather hoped Respen had finally proved himself to be of just a little use, and stumbled across some of the valuable elven treasure of the wood.

"Say, boy, what's that?" Asked Inaed, poking his small spectacles further up the bridge of the nose and hopefully inspecting the bundle. He was most alarmed to notice it was breathing.

"Ah! Disgusting child – have you picked up an injured animal again?" He said with disdain to Respen, taking a few steps back as though being in the mere presence of the creature was unhealthy. Respen pursed his lips, vaguely, and lowered the bundle in order to show Inaed.

"I suppose you could say that." Respen sighed, softly, and Inaed squinted at the small, sleeping face, utterly aghast. His expression changed however, when he noticed the protruding white ears nestled between the locks of her raven hair; it was an elf. An elven child. She seemed serene and fragile, and upon seeing her dainty, sleeping face he felt the same un-nameable sense of duty to her as Respen had.

The Amblecrown Caravans continued along their roughly beaten track, although now with a new addition to their party. The child rested snugly, sleeping, beside Inaed, wrapped in Respen's silken cape. The younger of the Amblecrowns rode on ahead once more, whilst the elder sat musing, a smug smile plastered across his wise old face as he observed the elf. "I suppose we must give you a name." Inaed chuckled, adjusting his spectacles again (It was a habit of his).

"You are such a skinny creature… I suppose your name should be elven. Skinny… thin… slender…" Inaed bit his lip thoughtfully, and then the perfect idea struck him.

"Ninde! Yes. We shall name you Ninde." Ninde was elvish for slender – he thought it fitting. Then, Inaed smiled a crinkled, affectionate smile at the small sleeping bundle of child. It was perhaps the first time he had smiled affectionately at something that was not made of gold and easy to sell.


	2. An Elf in the Twilight

Thankies to all reviewers. I heart reviews. 

_**1 – An Elf in the Twilight**_

A day, two days, the convoy continued through the woods – although now with another, younger addition. At first she had been silent, but perfectly benign. It soon became thought she did not know common, as silent and unresponsive as she was, but this not did sway Inaed. After noticing the intelligent glimmer in her clear blue eyes, he had become determined that he would teach her all he knew; she would become magically adept, of that he was sure. He did not doubt she would be a natural at the Art. The young Ninde would become a fitting heir for the Amblecrown enterprise; more fitting then Respen could have ever been, as block-headed as he was. At twilight, two days after he had found Ninde, the younger Amblecrown rode ahead again. After a pair of dry, spring days, the formerly mulchy forest path had solidified, and his horse was trotting happily along, followed by the caravans and guardsman. The sky was a velvety purple, vaguely seeded with glittering stars, like diamonds sown into a noblewoman's gown. The convoy was silent – the night was pleasantly heady and any small movement or action drained the energy from the body like sand from an hourglass. Inaed dabbed at his brow, which was lightly sheened with sweat, before urging on the mules again.

Beside him, perched Ninde. Her eyes were turned heavenward, and she regarded the night skies with a calculated wonder that was so characteristic of her race. Looking at the fragile creature, one would not have guessed that just days before she had been wild; a child of the forest. Her pale skin was now free of grime and glowed eerily in the moonlight, her jet hair also had a slightly blue cast to it, and hung washed and braided over one of her shoulders. Her ghostly colouring seemed all the more apparent at night, noted Inaed, taking a brief sidelong glance at his new daughter. It seemed almost as though she was not part of the material plane… that she made no mark on the dark world that surrounded her.

"You see that star, there?" Said Inaed, gesturing to a particularly bright star that flickered just visibly above them.

"That star is called Shaundral, or the drifting star. It is unique, in that unlike the other stars, it goes as it pleases. Ah – but it is not so bright tonight. That is good, for when it is bright, a great tragedy often befalls Faerun." To his surprise, Ninde nodded.

"So my mother told me." She whispered almost inaudibly, the light of the drifting star reflecting in her pupils. "It is the star of trouble."

Inaed's eyes widened. He had not expected her to reply, and it was the first time he had heard the elf speak. And she spoke of a mother…

"Where is your mother, child?" He asked, looking back across at her to see she had moved her gaze from the stars, to him.

"Dead, I think." Ninde said softly. "She did not come back from the wood." The small girl sighed, her silver voice tempered with melancholy, but suprisingly neutral and even for a child so young.

"And I think she must surely be dead."

Inaed stared at the strange child, struck by her lack of emotion as she spoke a statement of such brevity – surely she could not be normal.

"Ah… well if you have no family here, child, then surely returning with my son and I to the grand city of Waterdeep would be an appealing prospect…"

Ninde gazed blankly at him, her face as emotionless as her voice. "Your son is Respen?" She asked.

"Yes." Nodded Inaed, with a slight sneer upon his face, and a tinge of disdain in his voice. Ninde smiled, ghostishly.

"He is very old, to be your son." She giggled, naively, turning her face skyward again.

Inaed couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, I am very old, too." He replied, with a crinkling smile.

"How old are you, Ninde?

Ninde turned back to him, and then shrugged. She parted her lips, as though about to say something, but suddenly a hoarse cry pierced the humid silence.

"DROW! Drow raiding party!"

The distinctive noises of combat rang out from ahead, and Ninde's eyes widened, a reddish glint reflecting in her iris, as her infravision sliced through the darkness to the front of the convoy, each figure outlined in an eerie red, like bloody ghosts in the night. Whistling arrows. Hacking. Screaming. Respen – she heard Respen, and shuddered. And then a hand pushing her back into the caravan, into the dark, where she stayed, shaking and fearful. A time later, she opened her eyes, and her pale elongated ears shivered, as they registered new sounds.

The swaying of the forest's branches in a brisk autumn breeze. The occasional hum of an insect. She rolled onto her back, to find herself gazing at the canvas canopy of the cart, and surprise registered on her innocent features as she realised she most have fallen asleep – or blacked out. Golden morning light cast leafy shadows through the translucent off-white fabric above her. Then, she noticed something else. The caravan seemed to be at an angle; only slightly, but there was something definitely wrong about it. Time for a little experimentation, she decided. Without getting up off her back, she reached into the wooden crate beside her, groping around until she found just the perfect thing; a softly shimmering, and perfectly round phial of potion. Rolling onto her front, she carefully placed the green bottle on it's side, and watched with scientific eye as it steadily rolled to the other side of the caravan, clinking against the wooden side panel. Yes, she was at an angle. As silently as she could, she raised herself to her feet and gazed around. There were no other changes inside the caravan itself. Cautiously, she turned to climb through the rough canvas curtains at the end of the cart, back into the full light of day.

It seemed a blindingly bright, yet frigidly cold morning. Ninde lifted a small arm to shield her eyes, and gazed about at the convoy. The caravans were all deserted, and most had half-sunk into the muddy path, as she assumed Inaed's had. Inaed. Where was he? With an urgent intake of breath, she hurried along, peering into the back of each of the caravans for some sign of life. None. The guards were gone, too. Steadily growing more frantic, Ninde began into the woods, her small feet working with the utmost stealth; she knew the dangers of the forest well. She enjoyed the feeling of the moist earth and roughage beneath her bare feet, until, suddenly, she recoiled, having felt something harder and sharper pressing between her toes. Pausing, she bent down to inspect the prickly item. It glistened a dirty silver as the sunlight caressed its smooth surface. Ninde quickly realised that it was, indeed, the blade of a weapon. The elf dropped to her knees then, and began to scrub away the dirt surrounding it, her pale hands becoming as filthy as when, two days since, she had been found by Respen. But all thoughts of her new foster family faded from her small mind now, and an invasive curiosity controlled her actions.

Finally, Ninde's fingers brushed against a cool metal hilt embedded deep in the ground, and, delighted, she curled her hands around it, and using all her strength, tugged it from the ground. Tumbling backwards a little, Ninde composed herself and knelt up, beside the substantial hole she had just ripped in the ancient forest floor, and then, gazed down at the sword that rested across her lap. It was especially long and slender for a short sword, and shone with an eerie blue-white hue. The blade almost seemed to be made of some ghostly force, and looked as though one shouldn't be able to touch it, but upon further inspection Ninde did indeed realise that it was perfectly tangible, if unnaturally cold to the fingertips. The hilt was delicate, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which had a pleasing iridescent sheen to it. Running her fingers admiringly along the smooth surface of the hilt, Ninde soon noticed there were words embossed upon the shining pearl, in a language she guessed was Espruar; the alphabet of the elves. As she turned the weapon over in her hands in order to examine the other side, a shadow fell across her. Gasping, she turned.

She fell into the scarred arms of her adoptive brother, instantly dropping the sword, all interest in it suddenly evaporating at the sheer bliss of seeing Respen again. After briefly embracing her, he fell to his knees to peer into her face, his brow creased with concern as he examined her face, carefully ensuring she was not injured, and certainly with great relief, he determined she wasn't. Respen, however, looked rather battle worn. Ninde raised a small hand to his chin, along which another thin scar ran, seeding red across his neck. It was still open. As her fingertips brushed the wound, he winced and brushed them away.

"You are hurt…" Whispered Ninde. Respen smiled, and gently squeezed her shoulder.

"I'll survive." He murmured roughly, standing and taking her hand. "Come," he said, "we must return and find the others." Ninde nodded, and obliged, briefly darting back to retrieve her sword. Respen peered at it, suspiciously – it was clearly enchanted. But he could not help but smile at how comical Ninde looked carrying it; the blade alone was almost as long as her leg. He dismissed all cautious tendencies with a shrug, and decided it would be best to let Inaed do the worrying; it rather suited his character more. As they headed back through the trees, Respen coiled and ready to spring at the slightest threat, and Ninde babbling innocently. Her mundane chatter, her pleasant silver laughter was a delightful awakening from the combat he had been part of just the very night before. He was reminded exactly why he had always wished for a sibling, no matter how young.

"Where did everyone go last night?" She asked, as they approached the road.

"We drove the Drow back into the forest… the battle lasted for the whole night." Respen replied, with some chagrin.

"Ninde! My, praise be to Waukeen. You are safe, my girl!" The gravely voice of Inaed echoed about the clearing, and Respen released Ninde's warm hand as she bounded forward to embrace Inaed, dropping her sword to the grassy floor with a light thud. As she did so, Respen bent, reaching for the weapon, but the second his fingertips touched it he drew back, stifling a cry. It was numbingly, paralysingly cold. He could not lift it. Carefully, he removed his cloak and swathed the blade in the fabric, before cautiously lifting it, and holding it at a safe distance, frowning at it. He thought it best to keep it apart from the child… just holding it unsettled him deeply. He assumed his father would no more of the origins of such a weapon.

Flies buzzed urgently over the corpse. Miraculously, there was only one within sight of the convoy, but Ninde had found it. A drow, it was. His obsidian skin glowed with rancid sweat, and his wounds also glittered wetly. It was so cold; the blood was freezing, not drying. Ninde observed the way that steam seemed to rise from the body… like a final breath. But he had been dead a long time since. Respen and Inaed and the others were busy preparing the caravans to trundle on, and it had been all to easy for the silent Ninde to slip away from them. Every part of the dark, dead creature fascinated her; his eyes had glazed over palely, like two pearls set in to the dark satin of his skin. His hair was as silver as moonlight, but corrupted by seams of dried brown blood running from his shattered head. She wondered, perhaps, if her mother laid like this somewhere among the silver tree-trunks of Cormanthor. The thought both fascinated and appalled her, but at that moment her fascination with what lies beyond life was born.

But there was no time for worrying when Waterdeep, far to the west, beckoned.


End file.
